


Zutara Month 2018 Collection

by LittleLostStar



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Day 3 - storm, F/M, Freeform writing, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Zutara Month 2018, rating may change!!, short fiction, varying topics, zuko has a thing for women who can kill him with their pinkie finger
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 18:34:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16838125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLostStar/pseuds/LittleLostStar
Summary: The place where I'll be collecting whatever fics and ficlets I write for Zutara Month 2018. Title subject to change!DAY 3 - STORM:There’s a change in the wind.It’s not quite the last gasp of summer, but just before it; the change is subtle, so small that almost nobody notices. It’s the beginning of the end, the transition from blistering heat to pleasantly warm, carrying the whispered revelation that the autumn season is now a concrete near future, rather than an abstract concept lost in the sweltering heat of summer proper. It’s reflected in the first kiss of cool air on his face, in the first day that the beach gets quiet after a long summer of bustling activity. It’s in the first long sunset that glows more yellow than it did the day before, shining through the leaves on the trees, portending their inevitable descent in the next few months.There’s a storm coming.





	Zutara Month 2018 Collection

**Author's Note:**

> Hello pals! Since Tumblr has essentially set itself on fire today, I figured I'd just immediately cross-post any Zutara Month material that I write. I make no guarantees about content every day, or even every other day; if a prompt catches my eye and the words flow, I'll update this fic and the summary to reflect the new content. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and please let me know if you do! ^_^

There’s a change in the wind.

It’s not quite the last gasp of summer, but just before it; the change is subtle, so small that almost nobody notices. It’s the beginning of the end, the transition from blistering heat to pleasantly warm, carrying the whispered revelation that the autumn season is now a concrete near future, rather than an abstract concept lost in the sweltering heat of summer proper. It’s reflected in the first kiss of cool air on his face, in the first day that the beach gets quiet after a long summer of bustling activity. It’s in the first long sunset that glows more yellow than it did the day before, shining through the leaves on the trees, portending their inevitable descent in the next few months. 

There’s a storm coming.

Even as the sky remains bright blue, even as the clouds remain gentle white puffs, Zuko knows the storm is coming. It sneaks up on him in his quietest moments; his dreams become filled with images of raindrops suspended in the air, of the drumming cacophony suddenly dropping out and leaving nothing but haunting silence in its place. He tosses and turns, snapping awake with a start, his heart pounding in his chest as his mind summons images and sounds and feelings from a decade before. He walks out to the balcony of the royal quarters and looks out at the waxing moon as it shines over the capital city, and he lets his hand drift across the ridges of the scar on his chest. He lets himself remember, loosening the imaginary hand around his throat that always squeezes tight and whispers  _ forget. _

There’s a storm coming.

The next morning Zuko travels to Ember Island with a skeleton staff, just some bodyguards and a housekeeper. He still has no wife or child to bring with him, a fact that the sages seem to bring up more and more with each passing day, but Zuko relishes being alone. There is freedom in solitude, and a sense of self-determination he hasn’t felt since he traveled the world on a flying bison. 

It was too short, that time. He often thinks he should have left sooner, should have defected earlier; but the call of  _ what if  _ is a siren song, luring its victims to a certain death upon the rocks. There is no way to turn back time, no way to undo what’s been done. Zuko’s own body bears the permanent reminders of that difficult truth, and so he has learned to sit with the agony of  _ what if _ and exist, mostly, in peace. 

But there’s a storm coming. 

It’s like an itch in the back of his mind, pulling him out of bed in the darkest part of the night, lighting a path through the trees to a tiny inlet on the far side of the island. It runs through his veins, propelling him forward, controlling the motion of his arms as he takes the tiny rowboat and slowly, agonizingly travels towards a distant speck on the horizon. 

As he rows, Zuko thinks. There’s nothing else to do. He thinks about the storms that tossed him about on the hulking metal ship he called home for three years. Of the rain stinging his face as he stood on a cliff and dared the weather to kill him. He thinks of raindrops stopping in midair, held up by the sheer power of anger and grief, and how  _ quiet _ everything got, in that moment when he realized that the most powerful storm he’d ever seen looked exactly like a girl from the Southern Water Tribe. 

It’s been years, but that memory never fades. 

Zuko rows through the night and the next day, arriving at the island just as the sky is darkening, the clouds already gathering like vultures waiting to feast. The island is tiny, no more than a scrap of sand and stone with a few trees in the middle; it’s so small it doesn’t even have a name, marked as a mere dot on most seafarers’ maps. 

He flops back on the sun-warmed sand, his arms aching just enough to remind him that he’s not a young man anymore. He’s felt grown up for so many years now, and his body is finally getting the message. He’s not old, not yet; but it’s the beginning of a new phase, and yet another reminder that time marches forward even when his mind digs in its heels to stay put. 

The clouds have gathered closer, the sunset casting them in brilliant pink and purple; the air is still warm, but something has shifted. The smell of petrichor is heavy now, and it throws him back into the memory again, of the powerful storm that looked like a girl. This time Zuko sees how she held her palms perfectly flat, her arms held out straight like a dancer. He thinks he remembers a finger twitching, but he can’t be sure; it’s entirely possible he invented that detail, searching in desperation for some sign of effort on her part—some tiny piece of humanity that was feeling the weight of such intense power. Even before they’d known each others’ names, he’d known her; he’d seen the emotion in her eyes, the intensity in her heart, the relentless momentum pushing her forward that would only ever stop with her death. 

The girl who could reach into you and control your blood. The storm that could suspend the rain, pausing the inevitable rampage of nature. The girl who could stand up in the face of inevitable defeat and fight back, again and again and again. The storm that could have and should have killed Zuko so many times, and yet saw him spared, welcomed, gathered into the warmth of the clear sky in her eyes and the sun in her smile. 

The clouds finally blot out the last of the stars, darkening with every passing minute, heavy with rain. A single drop hits Zuko’s face, and he sits up. 

She’s there, at the water’s edge, her hair already lifting as the wind picks up speed. Her arms are raised, tiny flicks of the wrist the only sign of her involvement in the clouds swirling overhead. Zuko creeps closer, his feet silent on the sand, until they’re standing side by side, watching the storm roll in. 

Katara drops her arms, and their fingers brush against one another—a whisper, a promise, a spark. Out of the corner of his eye, Zuko sees her smile. 

“You came,” she says softly, her voice belying the power that flows from her hands. Zuko nods, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“Yeah, he croaks. “Well. You called.”

There’s that smirk, the tiny speck of mischief that reminds him of home in all the right ways. “Did I?”

Now Zuko chuckles. “How long have you been planning this?”

Katara shrugs. “Couple of days.”

He brings a hand to his chest. “My scars can predict the weather,” he grins, and she throws her head back and laughs. 

“Well. I’m glad you were able to get away.”

“Always,” Zuko replies, tracking Katara’s eyeline back to the blackened clouds above. It’s raining already, but an invisible bubble keeps the water from hitting either of them; he reaches out a toe to dig into the curious place where dry sand meets wet. 

“Would you care to do the honours?” Katara says, turning to finally face him, and Zuko nods. 

“Anything for you,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving her face as he reaches one hand toward the sky.

There is a moment of pure silence, like raindrops suspended in midair. Then in an instant the sky seems to explode as jagged spikes of lightning strike the water all around them, close enough to make the hairs on their arms stand up. The electricity is crackling, two energies pulling apart and crashing together again. Katara’s face lights up with delight, her eyes reflecting the brilliant blue-white of the lightning. There’s a clap of thunder, then another, then another; the storm is its own beast now, shrouding them against curious eyes. 

Katara’s smile gets a little wider, and the bubble around them collapses, drenching them instantly. 

“Hey!” Zuko has to yell over the sudden influx of pouring rain, but then her lips are crashing into his and they’re falling back onto the sand, everything else utterly forgotten. 

The most powerful storm he’s ever known. The girl who can stop the rain in the sky. 

For one night, he belongs to her. 


End file.
